They Thirst (65 page)

Wes put the knife and crucifix on top of the dashboard. Sand was beginning to pile up on the windshield so he turned the wipers on at their highest speed. The jeep thumped and jubbled over rapidly shifting sand dunes, but the thick tires gave them enough traction to get through without sinking. When Silvera looked back again, he couldn't see his church or the troop carrier, just a solid sheet of blowing yellow. In another moment Wes turned a corner, the jeep barely sliding around two cars that had crashed together in the middle of the street, and found himself at the bottom of the freeway ramp he'd crawled down. He slowed and peered up. The ramp was blocked by a mountainous sand dune that had built up over another stalled car. Wes cursed softly.

"We'll run into fewer of those if we stay off the freeway," Silvera told him. "I think I know the way from here. Across the river and around L.A. Back up a block and turn left." Wes did, the tires slipping with a sickening lurch but always catching just when he thought they were about to start digging a grave.

The air was getting bad. Silvera reached back, opened the nozzle on one of the oxygen tanks, and let some bleed out. He was sweating profusely, beads of moisture dappling his cheeks.

"You wouldn't have shot that lieutenant, would you?" Wes asked as they turned onto the stark yellow desolation of Brooklyn Avenue in dead Boyle Heights.

"No one would die for a set of keys. He doesn't care about the vehicle."

"Why did you help me?"

"Not because I think we can find your friend. I don't. But if you're willing to go to that place, knowing what's probably waiting up there, then I am too. Let's leave it at that."

"Fine with me." The engine suddenly sputtered, then coughed out a wad of sand. Wes checked the temperature gauge; it was running hot, but what the hell. If the damned marines couldn't build a vehicle that could plow through this fucking storm, then nobody could. Wes hoped their luck and good old American machinery would hold out just a while longer. If it didn't, they would die; it was as simple as that.

A fierce wind struck them broadside, shivering the jeep as if it were made of cardboard. The vehicle slipped to the left, tires digging for a purchase, and then darted forward like a land crab scrambling away from a shadow across a wind-rippled beach. Wes remembered Rutledge calling it a Crab. That was probably one of those cute names the military stuck on everything, but it described the tenacity and responsiveness of- the vehicle pretty well. A Crab it was.

Nothing moved on Brooklyn Avenue except the dunes, sliding like hot, yellow dancers to a mad maestro's shrilling tune. Everywhere there were stranded cars, and Wes didn't see the almost mummified corpses until the Crab had gone right over them, snapping them like twigs. His hands tightened around the wheel. Death was very close.

The boulevard stretched on out of sight. Behind them the way back had already closed.

Palatazin had been gone for almost twenty minutes when Tommy turned away from the window and said to Jo, "He's going to die up there." He said it quite calmly, without emotion and very seriously, because he knew it to be true.

"Why don't you sit down, kid?" Gayle said. She didn't want Jo to start crying again. There was a look in the boy's eyes that scared the hell out of her. They were like an old man's eyes, filled with pain and bitter wisdom. "Okay?" she urged. "Why don't you?"

"He doesn't know anything about the castle!
I
do! He'll get lost in there!"

"Please . . ." Jo said weakly and collapsed in a chair.

"I could help him," Tommy said, his gaze moving from Jo to Gayle. "I know I could!"

"Oh, Christ!" Gayle said, anger leaping in her eyes. "Why don't you shut up? He's going to be all right!"

Tommy stood motionless, staring at her. She looked out the window quickly, but she could still see him reflected in the glass. He walked back to the sofa and took the case off the pillow. "What are you doing?" Jo asked, but he didn't answer. He put on his jacket, zipped it up to the neck, and raised the collar. "No!" Jo said. "You're not!"

He folded the pillowcase into a square. "I guess you both think I'm a stupid little kid, don't you? Well, I may be little . . . but I'm sure as hell not stupid! That man who just left here is stupid because he thinks he can get into the Kronsteen castle, find the king vampire, and get out again just like that." He snapped his fingers. "Or he may just be trying to fool himself into believing that, I don't know. Well, he won't be coming back . . . at least not as what he was when he left, I don't help him. If I hurry, I can catch him . . ."

"You're not going anywhere!" Gayle said firmly, taking a step toward him.

Tommy stood his ground. His eyes were like chunks of ice. "My parents are gone," he said quietly. "They're dead. I'm not a little boy anymore."

Gayle stopped suddenly, realizing that he was right, he wasn't a child anymore. Whatever had happened to him last night had changed him forever. And wouldn't he have the same chances out there as Palatazin? Probably better. Certainly he could move faster, and his lungs were probably in much better shape. She glanced at Jo, then back at Tommy. "Do you think you can get him in and out of there safely?"

"I know I can." He stepped past her toward the door. "I'll have to hurry. If I can't find him, I'll have to come back, but I'll look as long as I can." He put the square of cloth up in front of his face like a mask. "Wish me luck," he said and slipped out through the door.

"That's a very brave little boy," Gayle said after he'd gone.

"No," Jo answered. "A very brave young man."

Tommy ran in the direction he'd seen Palatazin take. He was hoping he'd see footprints in the sand, but they'd already been blown away. He was half-blind, trapped within a cubicle of swirling yellowish-brown walls, his lungs scorched. His head was beginning to throb, but he welcomed the pain because it would keep him alert. He ran on, realizing that he might pass within ten feet of Palatazin and never know the man was there. Panic hit him—for a few seconds he couldn't draw a breath. He made himself slow down to a walk and breathe through his mouth at a regular pace. Sand scraped his cheeks and forehead, and now he realized that even if he did want to go back, he'd never find the way.

Huge dunes stood all around him, most of them towering over the hulks of cars. They shifted and slithered down as he passed, threatening to collapse over him. The world was dim amber light, a shriek of wind, and the coarse hissing of sand. The wind whipped around him, almost throwing him to his knees. He thought be heard a high whining voice at the center of it, whispering
Little boy, little boy, lie down and sleep. . ..

He went on and in another moment a dark shape emerged from the twisting currents. It was a Lincoln Continental, the paint stripped down to the bare metal, most of the car covered over by a dune. He decided to get inside it for a few minutes to clear the sand out of his eyes and mouth. When he pulled the driver's door open, a withered, blue-faced corpse came sliding out, its arms outstretched toward him. He swallowed a cry, spat out sand, and continued on. The wind whispered around his head—
Lie down and sleep, lie down and sleeeeeep
. . . "No!" he heard himself shout. "NO, I WON'T!"

In another three steps he tripped over something and fell to the ground. His legs had gotten tangled in the frozen arms of a dead woman, the flesh over her skull stretched as tight as old leather. Tommy kicked free and crawled away, tears stinging his eyes.
Sleeeeep,
the wind moaned.
Close your eyes now, and sleep . ..

It was so tempting.
Maybe I should,
Tommy thought.
Just for a little while. Close my eyes and rest, and when I get my strength back, I can keep on looking for him. Yeah. That's the thing to do.
He wondered if Mr. Palatazin was also sleeping somewhere, all curled up and comfortable. A yellow blanket began to drift over him.

And then he realized what he was doing and kicked off the blanket. He struggled to his feet, his heart pounding.
I was lying down to die,
he realized.
Old Death almost got me that time, and it slipped up so softly . . .
"NO, I WONT!" he shouted, though the words were ripped to shreds by the wind. He began to run again, past more stranded cars and half-covered things that were probably bodies, but he was afraid to look at them too closely. He ran past a street sign that said LaBrea Avenue, and now there were indentations on the ground that might have been scattered footprints or just deep-rippled places —he couldn't tell. In the shadow of a towering dune, there was an imprint that might have been made by a falling body. Panic flared within him. He knew he had to hurry; he might already be too late.

Ahead, at the corner of LaBrea and Lexington avenues, Tommy saw Palatazin's body sprawled in the windbreak of a stranded car. There was a long groove where the man had dragged himself for several yards.

Tommy ran to him and bent down. He could hear Palatazin's tortured breathing. "Wake up!" Tommy said, shaking him. "Don't go to sleep! WAKE UP!"

Palatazin moved, lifted a hand, and grasped his shoulder. He tried to focus on Tommy, but his eyes were bloodshot and watery. Sand had filled the cracks in his face, giving it the look of a dried-up riverbed. "Who . . . ?" he whispered hoarsely. He let his head fall back. "Oh, God," he breathed. "Go back . . . go back . . ."

"NO! YOU'VE GOT TO WAKE UP!"

"Can't make it. . . too far . . ."

"We'll find our way back together!" Tommy said, but he knew they couldn't, not really. The man was too weak and so Was he, the wind too strong, the sand too dense., "Stand up! Come on!" He pulled at Palatazin's arm with both hands; his unprotected face felt as if it was being flayed. Palatazin stirred and tried to rise, the effort showing in the grim set of his eyes, but he only got up on one knee and leaned against the car, his breath coming in heaving gasps.

"What are . . . you . . . doing out here?" Palatazin shouted at him. "I told you . . . told you to stay at the house!"

"Can you walk?" Tommy shouted back.

Palatazin tried to stand up again, but he didn't seem to have any strength left in his legs. His heart was racing, his lungs pumping like bellows but only drawing in short, burning gasps of air. He felt dizzy and about to pass out, and he clung to the boy for support. "I guess . . . I'm not in as . . . good a shape as I thought I was. Lungs are hurting."

"You have to stand up!" Tommy shouted. "I'll help you! Hold onto me and . . ."

"No," Palatazin said. "Just let me lie down and rest for a little while . . . just a little while . . ."

"YOU HAVE TO STAND UP!" Tommy shook him, but now the man was sliding down into the sand. His eyes were closing, and he was just a heavy mass of flesh without consciousness or will. And suddenly Tommy realized there was someone standing a few feet away from them, just behind his left shoulder. He whirled around to face a lean, leathery-looking man with long, grayish brown hair and a wild gray beard that flowed down over his chest in tattered, dirty strands. He wore filthy blue jeans and a yellow T-shirt that said Timothy Leary for President across the front under a picture of Leary sitting atop the White House and smoking a joint. Tommy was afraid to move. The man stared at him through keen electric-blue eyes, barely seeming to mind the storm. Then the man looked around quickly and fell to his knees beside Tommy. He oozed with the odors of grime, sweat, and sewage. "You're not one of
them,
are you, man? I mean, you can't be one of
them
because you're out here in the daylight, aren't you? I mean, what daylight there is, right? What's ailing this dude?"

"He's going to die!" Tommy shouted. "Help me make him wake up!"

The man dug a dirty hand into his pocket, fished around for a few seconds, and then brought out a clear plastic capsule and popped it open under Palatazin's nose. Palatazin immediately sputtered and opened his eyes, and Tommy smelled the heavy odor of ammonia. "Peace, brother," the man said, holding up two fingers in a
V
before Palatazin's face. "Amyl nitrate does it again!"

Tommy realized the man had no protection, nothing to mask his face, not even a jacket. "Where did you come from?"

"Me? I come from everywhere, man! From under the hot earth where the cool streams run! From where the babbling brooks play in the concrete night! That's where I live!" He pointed a skinny finger, and Tommy looked over his shoulder. He could see the open manhole.

"The vibes aren't right up here, man! Not right at all! Gimme a hand and let's get this dude downstairs!" The man started dragging Palatazin toward the open hole in the center of the street, and Tommy pulled as best he could. Palatazin was conscious but dazed, his breathing still forced and ragged. The bearded man clambered down a few metal rungs with familiar ease, then helped Palatazin down into the darkness. Tommy followed. At the bottom of the metal rungs, in a large, circular concrete tunnel with pipes and cables running along its sides, the man eased Palatazin to a sitting position, picked up a bull's-eye lantern from the floor, and then scurried back up to pull the manhole cover into place. Tommy watched the daylight disappear and with it went the scream of the wind. When it was gone, the man switched on his lantern and climbed down again. He shone the light at Palatazin, who was weakly pulling the rest of the sheet away from his face. "You need another popper, man?"